


The Master of Death

by Suragnce18



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Gen, Master of Death Harry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-27
Updated: 2013-12-27
Packaged: 2018-01-06 07:40:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1104194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suragnce18/pseuds/Suragnce18
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When you become the Master of Death, you don’t just gain a stone, cloak, and wand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Master of Death

**Author's Note:**

> This is a short one-shot that I wrote after I read The Book Thief. It really inspired me to think of Death in a completely new way and I thought I would write a different perspective of what being the Master of Death really is. Hope you all enjoy!

When Harry became the Master of Death, it was nowhere near what he had imagined it to be. He imagined it to be temporary, something he could get rid of with a snap of the Deathstick and the loss of the Resurrection Stone.

How wrong he was.

It wasn’t as much as _he_ was the Master, rather that the three deathly hallows were the master of _him_.

It didn’t take long for the nagging sensation to become unbearable. A week after Voldemort’s death, there was a feeling of restlessness that Harry could never place. His friends worried endlessly that the Dark Lord was never truly killed but Harry knew deep down that Tom Riddle would never rise again. The Deathstick made sure of that.

But by the end of that week, Harry knew he no longer belonged. Ginny told him he was becoming hard to see, as bizarre that was to say. He was becoming invisible, almost as if an impenetrable barrier had been erected between him and the rest of the world.

Harry had tried keeping the deathly hallows away from him. He kept the cloak locked and warded in his trunk, the stone thrown haphazardly in the Forbidden Forest, and the wand snapped cleanly in half and thrown in the canyon just below the train tracks that brought the Hogwarts express to the school.

The next day, all three appeared by his bed side, lying innocently on the table as if they hadn’t moved an inch.

So Harry succumbed to the nagging feeling. He packed his few belongs and simply left. There was no need to say farewells to his friends; he was unconsciously distancing himself from the world so much that half of the time, they barely recognized his presence. And so he left Hogwarts with the Invisibility Cloak over his body, Resurrection Stone in his left hand, and the Elder Wand in his right.

It was then that Harry met Death face to face.

Death was nothing like old fairytales foretold it to be. It had no scythe nor body made of rattling bones and chilling darkness. It did wear a cloak, though most of the time with the heavy hood down, and had no gender. There were no words to properly describe _how_ Death looked, but it was by no means human nor creature. No, it was something far above the standards of mortality.

And when Harry met Death, with the three hallows wrapped tightly around him, Death fell under his command and he was given the mantle—the responsibility—that Death once held. If he was the Master of Death, he was truly the only Master.

So Harry learned the ways of death. It was a difficult job, taking souls from dead bodies around the world and sending them on the road of eternity. He never asked where that road led to, whether there was a heaven or hell, and he honestly didn’t want it. The little piece of intrigue was what kept him going in the tedious job as Master of Death.

He had his assistants. Hellhounds. They were nothing like mortal hounds. Certainly not. They stood as tall as horses with long, narrow muzzles and powerful, iron-like jaws that could easily steal a soul from a body and keep it from escaping the confines of its sharp, rancid mouth. That was probably where the phrase, “stink of death,” came from. The rotting breath of the hounds was strong enough to even send Harry into a coughing fit.

Harry’s main responsibility was overseeing the process. Every soul in every dead body was taken, cruelly or kindly, and sent along the lonely road, where dragons with wings as large as castles and teeth as sharp as knives lay by the sides, their slittled golden pupils watching the souls move in a mournful march.

The job was busy. It certainly kept him from reminiscing to his old life, and within days, he had all but forgotten the names of his friends.

Death did terrible things to people. Harry could feel every loss, every last cry for help and every last drop of desperation and fear that filled the body to the point that it was swollen with helplessness. He took the deaths of children the hardest. Their souls were pure and yet to be tainted by the corruptions of the real world.

The least he could do was transport the souls of children by hand. He would hold each soul with gentle hands and soft murmurs of assurance and bring them to the road, settling each soul with a kiss and word of farewell. The hounds were forbidden from touching the souls of children. Harry worked day and night to ensure that not a soul would be left behind.

The hallows did their respective jobs to help him in the process. The Invisibility Cloak kept him hidden from the mortal world while the Resurrection Stone and Elder Wand allowed him to take the souls and send them through the road of eternity.

It was a wearisome duty and Harry found himself tiring of death. He was tired of seeing mangled bodies and crying loved ones. He wanted to see the living breath of man again, and the sounds of joy and laughter from a child’s mouth.

But Harry could barely spare the time to give a second glance to a dead body. As the number of people grew in the world, more and more died and Harry was always moving, always finding souls of the dead and sending them forward.

War did him no favor. It was not his best friend, no, it was his enemy. His archnemisis, his greatest adversary, and the sole target of Harry’s dark hate. War brought the deaths of millions of innocents and Harry could do nothing but accept the ruthless murders and tortures that came along with it. Some days he would carry a thousand souls and push them along the path within an hour.

He had long ago lost track of how long he had served his duty as Master of Death. All he knew was that he was tired of death and tired of hounds and tired of the souls crying out in pitying screams. He was tired—so, so tired.

But if he stopped, who would send the souls on?

So Harry did what he must do. For every soul he took, he gave a thousand apologies and another thousand promises of a beautiful eternity. Most people died with smiles on their faces, irony that evoked intense self-hatred and bitter laughter from the Master of Death.

No one liked or even sympathized with the Master of Death. No, he was the grim reaper, the man who stole the lives of innocent men and women and chuckled at the pain and misery of the dead. No one understood the burden that the Master of Death held alone. He had only the company of the hounds and of the souls of the dead.

The Master of Death was sorely misjudged, but Harry couldn’t find a fiber in his being that didn’t hate himself for what he did. His own soul swelled with crime and sins of a thousand souls.

All he saw was the dark red of blood and the black of death. He missed the vibrant colors of life.

The Master of Death was tired, but as life must go on, so must death.

Harry Potter was tired.

 


End file.
